Monday, November 13, 2006

Fallout thy name is reality - a dream-based speculation…

A note – a bitch’s dream-based speculations are…well, they’re just dreams for the love of all bitchitude!

Anyhoo, a bitch dreamed a little speculation last night.

Fallout, thy name is reality – a dream-based speculation…

A certain President Scooter B. sat at his desk in the Oval Office tossing sharpened pencils at the ceiling. Hank Williams Sr. blared from the radio and, after tossing his last pencil skyward, Scooter B.’s deliberate twang joined the chorus.

“I’m so lonesome I could cry!” he belted mournfully, leaned back and closing his eyes.

Scooter B. continued to hum and rock slowly in the chair silently hoping that the thoughts of failure and stupidity would fade away.

Sensing another presence in the room, his eyes shot open.“Father?” he whispered. “Why the glum face, old man?”

“I came to see how you’re doing. Took quite a beating Tuesday, didn’t you boy?” with panther-esque grace, 41 eased forward and ran a boney finger across the top of the disturbingly bare desk.

“Fuck it all. You came here to gloat!”

“No. You need help, son.” 41 said quietly.

“Why? Why did this happen?” Scooter sobbed. “Everyone blames me! Even Laura don’t look me in the eye no more.” Rising he turned to look out the window. “It’s just me and Barney. I know that now. At least a man can always count on his dog.”

“Oh shut the fuck up. Son, the time has come for you to face reality”

“No! I’m the decider! I decide shit and then it becomes reality!” Scooter B. wailed.

“Mmmmhmm. You decided yourself into the reality of a mid-term correction.” 41 replied calmly.

"Gawd you are a mess!" 41 turned away in disgust. “If you’re lucky Baker and Hamilton will find a way out of this shit storm.”41 stalked out bumping into a visibly excited Cheney. Taking in the Vice President’s hunting gear, 41 raised one inquisitive eyebrow.“Hunting rabbits, Dick?” he asked.

“I just got back into town and heard there was a lame duck ‘round these parts.” Cheney snarled.